Things Fall Apart
by bkgrl
Summary: I wrote this story years ago and it was called "I'm Not Calling You a Liar". That story was never a true Klaroline story. It was always meant to be a story about the Originals. Only this story has vastly different mythology. Its a story of my own making about how the Originals came to become the creatures they are now. Their true makers and the hunters that hunted them.


This isn't your classic fandom fairytale full of smut and simple plot lines. I'll spare you the time now if that's what you are looking for in a story. This is a detailed story, of my own mythology that makes sense- about the "Original Family" or the Lilins as they will be called in this story. That's right, were forefathers and foremothers long before the Mikaelson's arrived and this is those "Originals" story and how their existence predicated the Mikaelsons. So no- this for the most part won't follow the shows. And in advance you are welcome, because let's be honest, the shows are utterly contradictory and confusing.

Prologue

1939 AD

Berlin, Germany

Through a cloud of smoke Klaus surveyed the crowd as their host directed both he and his date to their table. Seated amongst other officers, government officials, their wives, lovers and girlfriends a like, the woman he'd brought couldn't have been more delighted. A mindless, vapid, social climber, she was all too happy to latch onto him and follow any instruction he gave her. Banal as she were, she would serve her purpose. She was just another decoy of distraction to help him wedge his way into the vast social group that was The Party.

Smirking, Klaus choked back the sarcasm and immediate boredom that overwhelmed him as he pretended to listen and care about the tedious things the men around him discussed. Politics, theories of action: Poland, Austria, England, France flitted off their tongues as though they were toys being pushed around the table.

 _Humans and their inconsequential wars_ , he mused to himself. They seemed to think the most mundane things justified invading countries and redrawing territories. Not long ago in the fall of 1916, he was in eastern France, watching men march to the slaughter. Fathers at that time were preparing themselves for the inevitable, telling themselves it was for the greater good that their sons may become rotted piles of meat in foreign fields as wives prepared themselves for widowhood. They told themselves they were stopping some great evil and that all who fought were heroes. Those fools, as with these, didn't understand what evil truly was. It wasn't the adversary that made itself known but rather the snake in the grass amongst them. Depravity was the things at play, which were so much greater than their little human lives. The only heroes of the Great War, as with each before: the Crusades, the Hundred Years War, the Chinese Civil Conflict, the Spanish Crusade, French Revolution, the war among the American territories, to name a few- were those intelligent enough to seek only what was in their personal best interest.

Country, God, philosophies and a moral right were only for those that rotted in open fields, long forgotten by whoever had sent them there. Humans, were the most inane of creatures, so proud and yet so puerile. Elijah was a fool to seriously involve himself with them and their politics. They were ants milling about their sand pile, frantically trying to exist, only to be squashed- their entire purpose lost in a matter of seconds.

"Do you not agree, General?"

"Hmm…" he paused as if in thought, "Yes, indeed, the British will soon relent in their frivolous air raids," he offered ambiguously, playing their little game, feigning interest when all he could think of were other more pressing matters he wished to begin addressing. Mainly, where was Daniel Berkovich now?

The crowd of chattering voices at each table, softened to a dull murmur as the curtain to the stage slowly rose, revealing the orchestra. The night's entertainment would be no different than usual- drinking, talk of politics and dancing. Klaus taking his private feeding from Lydia before cigars, brandy and the hunt for the information he needed.

" _There is a house in New Orleans. They call it the Rising Sun…"_ the entertainer's voice poured out over the crowd slow as molasses, with a kind of southern charm he hadn't heard since Klaus had left the American south years ago.

Removing her white gloves, his date leaned forward, cigarette in hand, prompting him for a light. Obliging, somewhat begrudgingly, irritated he was forced into such trivial formalities, Klaus glanced over her shoulder, the flame burning the edge of her cigarette bud when it happened. He saw _her_ and that was the moment when the whole world came crashing into some invisible force, lurching them all forward at the speed of light only to run head long into steel and ice. The whiskey he'd just sipped, sat sharp and caustic at the back of his throat, eliciting a curt cough and quick gasp for air.

In a green satin dress that dipped well below her collarbone and clung to her frame, he recognized those hands, that neck and her mouth before Llina continued, " _And it's been the ruin of many a poor girl, and me, oh God, I'm one."_

Blonde curls sat heavy on bare shoulders, red lips hovering centimeters above the metallic microphone she cradled in her hands, " _My father was a gamblin' man, his fortune, taken away._ _If I had only listened to what my momma said, I'd be at home today…."_

Blue eyes of an all too familiar adversary peered past the stage lights into the crowd. It was the face that had too many names to curse at once: Hannah, Christine, Nataline, Interloper, Devil, Misery, etc. and the first, the one he'd never forget no matter how desperately he would try. It was her that lead him straight to the gates of hell where only loss and despair awaited him.

" _But being so young and a foolish girl, I let a gambler lead me astray."_

"Lyanna," he whispered like a prayer, the final vowel laying on his tongue pungent in its memory. One look at her in that green dress and the ghost of almost five centuries past, called him back, singing the tale of a lifetime not too far gone. Memories, he'd carefully placed into chained box which he tried to forget. Klaus felt as though he were being choked by the Louisiana summer heat all over again. There were so many unpleasant things- memories flooding him at once.

"Impossible…" what he was seeing simply couldn't be. She was dead. Nataline was buried six feet under southern soil, in St. Louis Cemetery with her child.

" _You see my sweetheart is a drunkard, Lord. Drinks down in New Orleans."_

 _She was the last one_ … echoed in Klaus's mind, an accusation levied against nature, time and any concrete sense of reality he had retained after a 1000 years of life. The last hunter, the final bane of his existence and the thing that drew him back to the sickly southern states time and time again.

A strange, horrid and annoyingly familiar feeling of hatred and nostalgia flooded him. The Chinese had a word for it, they called it _Yuanfen_ : a predetermination of a relationship beyond one's control. The Portuguese called it _Saudade_ : the longing for someone that you lost- a vague and constant remembrance of something that cannot be.

" _Now the only thing that man needs is a suitcase and a trunk. And the only time he's satisfied lord, is when he's drunk."_

The sound of her voice was smooth as well barrel, aged scotch but sharp as a razor blade in its accuracy in accusation. If he was naïve or superstitious, Klaus would have called it fate but a thousand years of ten lifetimes had cured him of such silly notions. It wasn't fate, destiny, or any other mysterious barrier of joy, but more the reaper of misfortune- his Maker, he had to thank.

" _Somebody go get my baby sister…."_

It had been seventy seven years and he could still smell her perfume, hear her criticism and feel her skin. Leaving a bitter laugh coated with the ridiculousness of this ever evolving situational irony catching somewhere between his throat and mouth. She always seemed to find him when he was close to the bottom, circling somewhere between getting everything he ever wanted and toeing the line- threatening to careen over the edge of sanity with no visible end.

" _Tell her to do, never to do what I have done,"_ she sang on as if it was her final warning.

"Is there something wrong?" his date cooed, rubbed her hand over his thigh. She dropped her cigarette into the ashtray as she reached for her glass of champagne, waiting for his reply.

"The girl," he nodded in the direction of the stage, "What do you know of her?"

" _Live her life in sin and misery, remembering the man from the House of the Rising Sun…."_

Nails scraped along the seam of his pants, as his date smiled her bain irritated smirk and glanced over her shoulder, "Nothing, just another performer… one not taken to the camps."

"Is she Jewish?" Klaus stared up at the hunter, examining Aryan features: blond hair, grey eyes and other attributes that were clearly identical to the many before. Still however, he looked fatuously for signs of only one in particular.

Lydia laughed, leaning in closer, "Of course not. Why do you care?"

"I don't," he lied, reaching for his glass, summoning the waiter as she sang the final lines, " _Now my journey here is almost over, my race is almost won._ "

"Isn't she delightful?" one of the men at their table commented, eyes transfixed. Everyone in the room was completely enamored, like flies trapped in amber, unable to resist each word the dripped out of her throat as a slow, silvery, sap. They hated Americans with such fervor but ate their culture spoon in hand, faces flummox at their charming folk songs. As though they were watching colorful monkeys in gilded cages, perform the last act of a dying civilization of struggle, divisiveness but ultimately unsureness- so in contrast to their own bainal certainty. Naive to their own understanding of such a depth of sorrow.

Klaus knew better. That fruit may be succulent, saccharine and inviting but that fine of a wine came from a poisoned vine. Not to be tasted, even if only once from the curiosity of assuredness of survival.

With the conclusion of the song: " _Yes… I'm going back to spend my life with the man from the House of The Rising Sun,"_ a generous applause erupted throughout the room.

The songstress looking out over the crowd and bowed. Accepting the praise, she turned to leave the stage but not before stopping once more. With one hand of the railing, the other gripping the material of her dress, she glanced out again into the audience until her focus fell on Klaus.

It lasted less than seconds and to anyone else, it would have been a passing glance but as their eyes met, he knew, sure as ever, it wasn't a coincidence: that look, _that_ song, the timing it was everything.

Nodding to patrons as she passed, the songstress stopped at the bar, leaning over, whispering something to the bartender before exiting through one of the side doors. Quickly rising, Klaus excused himself from his company, ignoring Lydia's protests as he followed _the_ _sickness_ without thought.

She would dead before the band had cued up for the next song. Klaus was sure of it. He was too close, now. He didn't have time to deal with this. He'd have to kill her, simple as that. He would find her, cornering her in some dark hall and snap her neck. Ending it before it could begin again and she could ruin his plans. Pushing past the waiters that gathered at the bar and patrons making their way to the dance floor, he burst through the exit doors looking both ways down the long dimly lit corridor.

She couldn't have gone far.

Immediately he spotted her, the swishing of material, heavy breaths, heels on marble floors and a flash of green as she turned around the corner. Straightening the lapels of his officer's uniform, Klaus smiled to himself, comforted finally. Soon, very soon- moments really, it would forever be done.

They were all dead.

Every child of the hunters, boy or girl, vanquished. Whatever illusion this one was would soon be eliminated as well and then… finally then, Klaus would have it. Long lasting relief that had eluded him for close to a millennium.

Following the sounds of her, he was practically glowing with joy, breathing down her neck that he planned to snap clean in two. His mouth watering with anticipation, when it happened. Turning the same corner as she, in his own a frenzied haste, Klaus ran head long into something. A waiter he clumsily knocked to the ground.

"I'm sorry, Sir," the older man pandered, looking up at him apologetically.

"It's fine," Klaus muttered, eyes darting across empty floors and barren hall that lead to a dead end.

"Are you sure, Sir? I didn't hurt you?" Rising from the floor, dusting himself off, the elderly gentleman smoothed the few thin grey strands of hair that fell over his forehead.

"Yes- now where is she?" Klaus barked, eyes feverishly scanning the hallway.

"Where is who, Sir?" The old man questioned, following his gaze as they both stared down the empty hall before his gaze fell back to Klaus.

"The woman, old man! The performer wearing the green dress."

"Performer?" he questioned, hands straightening every crease in his uniform, meticulously, "There is no woman in this hall, Sir."

"You think I cannot see that?!" Klaus snapped, glowering at the puttering employee, "There was a woman that came down this hall, where is she now?" he demanded, his hand settling heavy as a threat on the man's shoulder.

"Well I do not know, Sir. I saw no woman," the old man promised, aghast.

Looking past the waiter, at the doors on opposite side of the hall, Klaus inquired, "Where do those lead to?"

Wholly confused, the employee replied, "A storage room, Sir and the street-"

Klaus was down the hall, trying the first door before the waiter was able to finish his sentence.

Finding the storage room locked, he turned, pushing open the door that led into a narrow alley. Cool fall air blew past him as he stepped outside. Examining the south end of the small space, Klaus was positive it was the only way she possibly could have gone. He let the door to the club click closed behind him as he sped down the narrow cobblestones between two the buildings, following it until the alley opened up onto the streets. Almost completely abandoned there was not a person in sight for yards except the shopkeeper three doors down, locking up for the night.

Frantic, panic fired through every nerve ending he possessed. _No, there was no possible way he had lost her. She was right in front of him._

Klaus would search every alley, every side street, and every shop window but find nothing. She had disappeared as if she were only a figment of his imagination. A lingering nightmare or perhaps something more sinister, like hope.

She was different every lifetime, never the same Lyanna, never another Nataline but always the same woman. He should have known it wouldn't be easy now, not when he was so close. He should have known, after a thousand years they would find some new way to evade him. Isn't that after all, what animals did? They adapted, adjusted, selecting for their environment, so as to become better predators. Each time she left him, she would come back more potent than the last.

They were the only threat that would keep him glancing over his shoulder, send him scouring the streets at night even if it were in vain. It would have been easier to believe that she was truly just an apparition. It could have been so much simpler if he had finally allowed himself to believe in the correct lies. He knew what he'd seen. But he wasn't foolish enough to be so pleasantly naive. Klaus would know her face- _that_ face, anywhere. The perfect killer, same eyes, different name, she would be slow to act but agonizing in her execution. He would expect nothing less. She was alive. Waiting out there for just the right moment with only one enemy in mind.

 _It won't be the same,_ he would tell himself a thousand times that night alone. This time he'd learned. Hannah, Lyanna, Christine, Nataline… whatever her name may be. She wouldn't be as lethal this time, he wouldn't allow it.

Walking back into Amon's, disturbed but still confident of his plan, Klaus sung low under his breath as he prepared for battle, "My race is almost won…. I'm going back to New Orleans, to crush The Rising Sun."

This time it would be different, he promised himself. It had to be….


End file.
